


Vena Amoris

by Patch, Piyo13



Category: Dracula Untold (2014), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bard is a vampire, Bard is actually Dracula, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, and slightly hand wavy logic to keep Bard at an acceptable level of badassery, may draw on some vampiric myths to fill in any gaps, mostly BotFA-compliant, will also involve a lot of bats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-04-05
Packaged: 2018-03-09 23:40:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3268622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patch/pseuds/Patch, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Bard leaned closer, the heady scent of blood filling his nostrils as he located the golden shimmer that pinpointed the jugular for him.</i>
</p><p><i>Bard bit."</i><br/> </p><p>Bard has a secret, one that stems from far to the east, in lands far forgotten and times long past. It's one that no one must know—but times are changing for the people living on the lake. Even for those who, technically, aren't alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So, my second Barduil fic here! There's been a lot of talk in the tag about a Dracula Untold crossover, so if you enjoyed you can thank Patch for bringing the idea to me and letting me in on the writing :D This was super fun to write, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed working on it ^^ ~Piyo13

While Mirkwood may not have been the forest's original name, Bard couldn't deny that, at times, it lent itself well to the place. Ancient trees towered around him, their boughs heavy with centuries of growth. What light that managed to make its way through the thick foliage was thin and weak, what branches it caught cast into a pale shade of themselves, colour leeched from the bark.

Though he knew it was unnerving to most, Bard could feel himself relaxing under the eaves of the forest. It had been hundreds of years since daylight had had the power to char his skin, but it still prickled, and Bard was always grateful for the thick shade the trees provided. But today wasn't a day for a leisurely stroll—it was a hard year for the fish, and though it was still only early fall, the people of Laketown were already starting to feel the pangs of hunger. Empty nets meant empty stomachs, but empty stomachs in turn meant desperation, and it was because of that that Bard had been able to get Hilda to watch Tilda for the day as he went to hunt.

Taking a few more steps into the forest, Bard unslung his bow and quiver from his back, setting them gently in the crook of a nearby tree, his long bargeman's overcoat following suit. They had their uses, but now was not the time. Instead, he took a breath and allowed his senses to spread out around him. He could feel his creatures first and foremost, underfoot and tucked away into the hollows of trees. They stirred slightly with his passing, but he didn't order them to wake. Let them have their sleep.

Instead, he focused his energies inwards, purely on himself. As dulled by sunlight as his senses were, his reach was enormous, spanning everything visible and then still a mile beyond. A flicker of motion a ways out caught his attention, and he turned his head slowly to face it head on. The wind blew gently towards him, filtering through the trees and undergrowth but bringing with it the scent of deer. And blood.

So the buck in question was injured. That made it easy for Bard; sometimes he would have to wait until several animals had passed him, refusing to hunt does with fawn or even the younger animals. But if they were injured, then it was only a question of time before someone—or rather, something—else made quick work of the deer. Bard would bring it a quicker death than any of the other horrors the forest held.

Keeping his footsteps light as he could and his target in range, Bard moved slowly through the forest. He took his time, freezing in place periodically when the buck's ears twitched, or it stopped chewing, gazing about the forest in apprehension. Invariably it relaxed again, returning to browsing, and gave Bard a clear look at its pronounced limp. Its left foreleg bore a large scratch, parts slowly oozing blood and the rest a sickly colour. Now that Bard was closer, he could smell the undertones of imminent infection within the blood.

Bard was about a hundred meters out when the buck noticed him. He'd stepped onto a patch of wet leaves that had disguised a fallen branch. The snap seemed to echo in the quiet, dense air of the forest and the wounded buck looked up. From where he stood hidden amongst the shadows Bard could see the moment when the deer realized its life was in danger. Its great antlered head drew back and it turned swiftly before beginning to spring away. Bard took three steps, not caring for the amount of noise he made, and leapt into the air.

He'd learned to control what magic he possessed centuries ago, and letting go of the strand that kept him corporeal took less than a blink of an eye. Bard's vision and consciousness kaleidescoped as he reformed into little flitting shadows, looking for all the world like a flock of bats. Weaving in and out, he followed the animal as it ran.

Though injured, the buck was still sure footed and it evaded him for a good minute. Terror lent it speed, but Bard had skill and the finely honed instincts of a predator on his side. One small stumble and the shadows descended on the deer, knocking it to the ground. In amongst the rush of limbs Bard reclaimed the strand that kept his body whole just in time to land with his hand on the buck's throat, fingers already sporting claws and fangs fully extended.

The buck started to struggle, but Bard's heavy hand held it in place, no matter how wildly it flailed. Its heart beat in staccato double-time, vein pulsing heavily under its skin. Bard leaned closer, the heady scent of blood filling his nostrils as he located the golden shimmer that pinpointed the jugular for him.

Bard bit.

His fangs sank easily and deep, piercing through the skin and muscle and fat and tendon, straight to the rich concentration of blood. It spurted into his mouth, hot and metallic. Bard drank. Bit by bit, the animal stopped struggling, going limp as Bard sucked, little rivulets of blood escaping his mouth and running down his neck. He drank until there was no more left, just a bled-out carcass.

He stopped then, and cast his senses wide, checking that the forest was clear. Sometimes other predators would be attracted to the site, other times Bard had had close brush-ins with the elven Forest Guard, and once, memorably, a spider nearly as large as himself had decided to eat him. Bard had killed that one on sight.

Today, though, the forest was as empty as a forest could be, and Bard stood up. He grabbed some moss from a nearby tree, using it to wipe his mouth, neck, and hands, ridding them from blood. Then he grabbed the buck's legs, draping the animal over his shoulder. Stiffness had already begun to set in. Around him the forest was already returning to its brooding silence, quiet and still apart from Bards own breathing.

 Not bothering to quiet his footsteps, the return trip took less than a third of the time.

Bard put his overcoat back on, the familiar weight settling across his shoulders like a warm embrace. He reached into one of the deep pockets, and pulled out a burlap cloth, which he used to cover the deer. With a small effort he slung the deer back around his shoulders, holding it steady with one hand, carrying his bow and quiver in the other. He made his way back to the lakeside, where the barge sat steady in the frigid grey water.  The weight of the deer barely rocked the boat, sending small ripples out onto the surface of the water.

In the distance sat Laketown, shrouded in the fog that had arrived with the onset of cold weather. It looked ghostly, the dark wooded buildings disappearing in and out of view with the wind. Around it, the dark waters of the lake stretched out like a black hole in the landscape, the water eerily still on the surface, broken only by the occasional wind-induced wave.

At the edge of his consciousness, Bard could feel creatures moving in the depths of the lake, far, far down, in the dark places where warmth didn't reach and light couldn't penetrate. They were cold and alien to his mind, but he did his best to pay them no heed. One thing that living on a lake had taught him was that creatures of the water were far stranger than those of land or sky; and while different, those that called the lake their home were not foul, and meant no one any harm.

With practiced hands Bard cast off and sailed back towards Laketown, reigning in his senses in as he did so.

Sometimes the smell of fish could be a tad overwhelming.

* * *

Bard could feel the movement of the water through the wood. It was strange sometimes, the dichotomy between the solidness of the walkways and the slight rolling sensation that came from the waves, but he adjusted his gait to walk swiftly towards his destination.

The smell of damp wood and cloth hung in the cold air, inescapable in the waterlogged town.

Night always descended quickly on the lake and the water in the canals was glittering with the reflected lights of candles and lanterns. Not too far away loud voices rang out, happy and full of laughter. He walked faster and after a moment's indecision cut across some boats that sat tied against the walkways before coming to a stop outside a large building. 

Bard stooped through the doorway of the pub-cum-town-hall, packets of meat—neatly wrapped thanks to Sigrid, Bard had never really gotten the hang of using the waxy parchment properly—tucked under his arm.

Outside in the dark the chill of the air had made his breath fog, but now the fire-heated warmth of the pub buffeted him almost as much as the press of bodies did. Off to the sides, adults and older teenagers were sitting on stools or standing, while in the middle Hilda was weaving stories for the mass of children gathered at her feet. Bard smiled at the sight, identifying Tilda and Bain as two of them. A moment passed before his son blinked and raised his head, spotting him easily amongst the crowd. He smiled back at his father as the children shrieked loudly at something Hilda said.

Bard looked around and spotted Abe in one of the corners. He waved, but Abe was deep in conversation with Lucas over a beer, and he didn't see. Bard sighed. He pushed his way through the crowd, ignoring the way the scent of warmth and sweat soaked the air, until he reached Abe. He placed the meat on the table with a thunk.

Abe looked up, startled, then broke into a grin when he realized it was Bard. Lucas did likewise.

"Bard!" he said, scooting over and making room for Bard to stand at their table.

"That's the meat I promised you," Bard said, tapping the package. "Should be enough for a few days if you let your wife cook it."

Lucas guffawed and Abe looked chagrined. "Aw, come now, Bard, that were only one time that I burned it!"

"Nah, Bard's right, let Brenda do the cooking, you're hopeless."

"Ah, but she's a treasure and everyone knows you're no better," Abe said, giving Lucas a look. Lucas was still unmarried, and almost as bad at cooking as Abe. Almost. "But thank you, Bard. Still think you're a mite insane to go into that forest on your lonesome, mind."

Bard just smiled and shrugged. "Like I said, I never go in very far. The deer are easy enough to bag if you've got a good bow." Abe just shook his head. The children laughed happily behind them, small voices rising above the chatter. Lucas leaned forward so he could be heard.

"Get yourself a pint, why don't you? We'll find you a seat," he said. Bard nodded slowly.

"Alright, you drive a hard bargain, but I'm convinced for now," Bard said. He made his way back through the crowd until he reached the bar. He flagged Harold down.

"Bard! What's it be for you tonight?"

"Just a beer for now, please."

"You got it," Harold said, bustling away and talking to at least three other people as he did. Bard turned and leaned against the bar, facing the small crowd of children. Now that he was closer, he could make out what Hilda was saying.

"And then, you know what he did? He _jumped!"_ she said, starting towards the children with her hands spread wide and dark hair flying. Some of the children giggled.

"And then and then?" one of the younger children asked, holding a small stuffed doll close to their face.

"But he didn't fall far, because then, with a magical incantation—you have to understand, kids, I can't repeat it here, because to do so is to wake the monster's magic—the magic overtook him, and he became a _swarm_ of _bats_!" Bard could instantly tell which children had never heard the story before, because they looked completely flabbergasted. Tilda, too, looked excited at the turn the story was taking. Bain, however, turned to meet his father's eyes and gave him a worried look. He knew that this particular story had never sat well with Bard.

"Ach, woman! You can't leave them with an image like _that_ in their heads!" Percy said, sitting a few seats away from Hilda as he was. Bard shook his head slightly in exasperation, his affection for his friends momentarily derailing his unease.

"And what's that supposed to mean, pray tell?" Hilda said, shooting Percy a look. The children giggled.

"Because it wasn't just a 'swarm of bats'! Listen up, kids, let Percy tell you how it _really_ happened," he said, scooting his chair closer to Hilda's. He set down his drink, and began to gesture as he spoke. "So the demon said the incantation, that much was right. But when he did so, at first there was no change. Metty almost thought he'd won. But then the clouds came, and you must understand—these were thunderheads like the kind that only happen once a century, so dark that it almost looked like it was night, even though the sun was already rising.”

Bard watched as Percy leaned in closer, his weather-beaten face serious apart from the slight glint in his eyes. “ _That_ _’s_ when Metty saw bats. These were no ordinary bats mind you! No, these bats had fangs the size of a wolf's and a _thirst_ for blood! Metty wouldn't be scared of normal bats, but these bats… they were evil." Percy said the last word in a sibilant hiss, and the children stared at him, wide-eyed and silent.

“They came in their thousands, screeching and crying, all to answer their master's call. Now, Metty had brought an army with him to defeat the demon, but the monster had his own. You see,” Percy leaned in closer and a hush fell over the children. “You see, when the demon had first been brought into being it had been given a gift by its horrid master. It's _father,_ some say, because the demon was also known as the Son of the Devil. But his gift was as follows: _dominion over all the creatures of the night_. The demon lived for the dark, and the nights out to the far east were long, and the creatures who called it home were strange and dangerous. And the demon used them well; giant bats that could pluck you from the sky, horrid wolves that would follow you for days till you couldn't go any further.”

By now Bard could see others in the pub pausing in their chatter, taking a moment to listen into the story. The wind made the building creak and groan.

“Though,” Percy said with a thoughtful look on his face, “better to be taken by one of them than the demon. If you were lucky it’d kill ya, otherwise…” Percy gestured vaguely as the children watched him with rapt attention. “Otherwise he’d _turn_ you. Suck out your blood and make you into a puppet, all to help carry out his foul deeds.”

Bard couldn't help his flinch.

The children's silence was one of terrified awe and with a satisfied grin Percy straightened. "And now back to you, miss Hilda," he added sweetly, scooting his chair back. Hilda glared at him, irritation at being interrupted softened by the slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

Between the two of them, Bard knew, they could capture the attention of the quickest-minded child or adult, and while ordinarily he would have been happy to sit back and listen in himself…

Bard turned into the bar, keenly aware of the small brown bats that flitted past the pub outside. His good mood had dulled and the lingering taste of blood in his mouth turned foul as Hilda continued to weave her tale. She’d always had a fondness for the old stories he knew, ones with far off lands and princes and monsters.

He tried to tune out the story as it continued behind him, but only had marginal success until Harold returned, Bard's beer in hand. Bard gratefully accepted the beer and handed over the appropriate amount of coins. Harold pushed them back and leaned forward.

"I've been meaning to ask you, Bard…"

"Yes?" Bard answered, tensing up slightly.

"How's it if I give you a couple of beers on the house, in exchange for some meat next time you go out hunting?"

"No need, no need, my friend," Bard said, clapping a hand on Harold's shoulder, glad for the distraction. "We still have half a hind in the ice locker, I was hoping to find some people who'd take it off my hands. How much are you wanting?"

Harold returned Bard's easy smile. "Howevermuch you'd be willing to give, honestly. You know what it's like with children; always hungry."

Bard laughed. "Nothing truer! And you've got five, I can't imagine. But good, I'll have Sigrid or Bain run it over later tonight." He lifted his tankard of beer. "For now though, I've got a drink and conversation to attend to."

"Ah, off with ye. And tonight at least you'll just take the drink," he said, noticing Bard trying to leave the money. Bard scooped the coins up with a crooked smile.

"I'll see you around, Harold," he said. Harold waved, already busy taking someone else's order. Bard made his way back to Abe and Lucas. True to their word, there was now an empty chair and a patch of tabletop awaiting Bard.

"So?" Bard asked. "What's new since three days ago?"

"Oh, you won't believe this—" Lucas began, launching animatedly into a story about Alfrid 'the bastard son of a balrog' falling into the water. Bard grinned over the rim of his tankard.

* * *

The air was still that afternoon.

Tauriel moved as swiftly as she could, the rapids flowing noisily beside her. Below her feet, wood and dirt gave way to stone and a faint coating of moss as she climbed up over the rocks that overlooked the small docks at the mouth of the river.

She'd come with the barrels, and sure enough, Bard was already there, catching the barrels deftly with a long hooked stick and pulling them to shore. Tauriel watched him work for a bit, until all the barrels were on land. Then she walked down, trying to get as close as she could before Bard noticed, hoping that the rush of the river would mask any sound she couldn't hide. She made it to ten feet away before he stiffened and relaxed again in quick succession.

"I know you're there," he said aloud. Tauriel smiled.

"Indeed I am," she replied, and Bard turned, smiling.

"Captain," he said with a bow. When he stood up, there was a twinkle in his eyes. "You made it closer, this time."

"Bowman," she returned with a tilt of her head. "It seems that you are losing your touch."

Bard smiled as he returned to work. "Not losing my touch; merely out of practice. It's been a while, you see." He rolled the barrels around with practiced ease, and Tauriel moved around to stay within polite talking distance but not in his path.

"It is the end of summer, now. As the seasons change, so do the beasts," she said, hand twitching to her dagger even as she thought about it. Bard furrowed his brows at her.

"Hard times in the Forest Guard?" he asked. Tauriel hesitated before answering, but then decided that the information was not of value enough to bother Thranduil.

"There's been another infestation of spiders," she said, dagger now out and spinning idle circles in the air as she tossed it. Bard looked at both her and the knife in mild alarm, but continued doggedly about his way, rolling the second barrel up with the first.

"These are the giant spiders you've told me about?"

Tauriel nodded. "Just yesterday, we ran into another twenty. Thankfully one of our outer scouts spotted them before we dived headlong into their webs." Bard shuddered visibly.

"Sound exciting."

"Life's never dull, in the Guard," Tauriel said with a smile. "And your children? Are they well?" she asked. She'd found out about Bard's children several years ago, and though she had never met them, Bard's words had created a real affection for them. She asked after them at every opportunity.

Bard pushed a fourth barrel onto the barge, to rest with its fellows. "Sigrid's doing well, she's been going over to Helga's a lot to learn to read and write. Her penmanship is already far better than mine, and I've been writing for years."

"Do many people not know how to write, in Esgaroth?" she asked. She hadn't considered the possibility that not all humans learned to do so as children.

Bard shrugged. "About half, by my reckoning. Half and one, now," he said. "Bain's been getting restless. I've told him he should lend a hand down by the Fisherman's Guild, but he says that it smells too much of fish down there." Bard shot Tauriel a look, and she laughed. When she'd first met Bard, she'd asked if all men smelled as strongly of fish as he did. He'd laughed, after a moment of shocked silence. That had been the start of their easy friendship.

"And Tilda?" Tauriel asked.

Bard hefted another barrel onto the barge with a grunt. "Tilda is Tilda. She wanders about completely wild, climbing onto all manner of roofs in chase of cats and birds. Causes me and her sister right grief, she does, always coming home dirty and with clothes needing darning."

"You know she's welcome here any time."

Bard gave her a baleful look. "Your stories of giant spiders don't exactly inspire confidence, you know," he said, and Tauriel tilted her head in acknowledgement.

"I suppose this is true."

"You know _you're_ invited over to our home? It's a sight less grand than the forest, I'd imagine, but nonetheless."

"Someday I shall take you up on that, you know," Tauriel said. Someday, when she could get away from her duties as Captain of the Guard for more than ten minutes. Speaking of… "Ah, but I must go, now. They will be wanting me back."

Bard nodded. He still had three barrels left. "I will see you sooner, this time?"

"As soon as I can manage," Tauriel promised. She hesitated again, then added, “You should be aware because you work here in the woods—but the Guard has been noticing some discrepancies lately." Bard furrowed his eyebrows at her again. He stopped moving the barrels and looked at her.

"Discrepancies?"

"Yes. Some creature has been hunting in our woods, and we cannot find it. Nor does it leave traces of its hunt behind, not even blood." Bard looked as though he'd been doused with cold water. "I tell you this not to frighten you, only to keep you on your guard," Tauriel finished.

"On my guard, right. I'll keep my bow closer to hand from now on, I think."

Tauriel nodded, pleased. "Good. Then I bid you farewell, until we meet again."

"May the stars light your path," Bard said. Tauriel smiled at the elven goodbye, then walked back into the forest, the trees quickly swallowing her up and blocking Bard from sight. She could return to her duties now, knowing that Bard was at least warned and prepared.

Now if only she knew what to do about the spiders…


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [officially adds 'slow burn' as a tag to this fic]

"Weaving is a no?"

"Da."

"What?"

"I _hate_ weaving."

"Aw, come now, Bain, don't say that, Terry's right there!" At the sound of his name, Terry looked up, squinting at Bard and Bain.

"Say what now?" he said, not even pausing his work at the loom to talk.

"Nothing, nothing, Bain was just admiring your skill!" Bard said, smiling at Terry, who exaggerated his suspicious look at the pair.

"You raise that boy to appreciate a fine piece o' fabric, you hear?" he said, affecting an offended air.

Bard nodded seriously. "Wouldn't dream of anything else, Terry, I swear to you." The man just laughed heartily, pausing to switch the colour of thread on the shuttle. Then he picked up right where he left off, the thick, coarse yarn meshing solidly together and the piece gaining a new green stripe as a result.

"Good. Now if you're done chit-chatting, you're blocking my steady stream of customers, you dog," Terry said, making a shooing motion at Bard and Bain. Bard laughed again, but moved and began to walk away.

"Alright, alright, we're leaving. Be well," Bard said with a wave.

"And you both as well," Terry returned, his attention focusing swiftly back to his work. Bard glanced sidelong at Bain.

"So. Fishing is no, seamstressing is no, rope-making is no, shipbuilding is no, weaving is no, I'm pretty sure the Master dislikes you almost as much as he does me, so that rules out anything to do with the guard… you can't sit around house all day, you know. _Something,_ you gotta do."

Beside him, his son slowed to a stop, and Bard followed suit, watching him curiously. There was a strange look in Bain’s eyes.

"Actually…" Bain shuffled his feet, looking down. Bard waited, his long years having granted him patience, if nothing else. "I was wondering if I could apprentice at the forge," Bain said, and Bard felt like he'd been gut-punched by a hammer.

_Oh._

"It's just, I know Ma worked there, and I know I don't really remember much but I still… um."

"Oh, Bain," Bard said, stepping in close and hugging Bain tightly. Of course—he hadn't even _considered—_ Sigrid, like him, hadn't wanted much to do with the forge at all once Freya had died—but of course that wouldn't mean _Bain_ wouldn't—and Bard really should have thought of that and _how could he not_ —

Bard tightened his arms around his son.

" _Da_ , you can stop now," Bain said, voice muffled by Bard's coat, but his arms had encircled Bard as well and Bard knew he didn't mean it. Bard kissed the top of Bain's head before letting go.

"Of course you can. I didn't think of it earlier, I'm sorry. But c'mon, we'll go talk to Jan." Bard clapped his hand to Bain's shoulder, and then led the way to the other side of Laketown, cutting straight through the busy town centre.

It was a nice enough day to be outside. Though clouds hung heavy in the sky and the breeze spoke of strong winds heading their way, the air out on the lake was clear and fresh. Every once in a while the call of a water bird would cut through the general noise that came with village life. People around him talked amongst themselves; bargaining at the markets, calling out names and commands amongst the fishermen, children laughing as they ran underfoot. Occasionally someone would call out to Bard in hello which he acknowledged with a name and a nod.

Laketown was teeming with life.

Bard's feet carried him without thought, having walked this path a hundred times. At his side Bain seemed to hum with a nervous energy, one that couldn't be settled through movement or thought; but he nonetheless stilled as they came to a stop.

The forge, from the outside, looked no different than any other building in Laketown—the wooden beams that held it up were dark with water and a dampness that Bard had once found odd, but was now wholly accustomed to—but inside it smelled of warmth and heated metal.

Freya had smelled like that when Bard had met her, and the scent always called her to the forefront of his mind. Bard peeked in through the open doorway, the ringing peals of hammer on metal vibrating the air.

“Jan?" Bard shouted, projecting his voice as best he could into the din. Jan looked up, his long hair plaited neatly down his back. Bard saw the smith's eyes widen, and then Jan made a quick 'wait a moment' motion, and went back to hammering. The long spike flattened against the anvil before it cooled to red, and Jan dropped it neatly in a bucket of water before dropping all his tools and running over to Bard and giving him a hug.

After a second of surprise, Bard returned the hug.

"You haven't been around in a while," Jan said, stepping back and lightly punching Bard on the shoulder. Bard tried for a smile.

"No, sorry, it… brings back memories, you know. I've missed seeing you around, though," he said. Jan nodded in understanding; Freya had been his mentor, and her death had meant his becoming master smith, probably a few years too early. Bard had tried to help in the forge as best he could with what Freya had taught him, but he'd never been any good, and after a few months he'd stopped trying, confident Jan could manage by himself.

"Oh, and Bain!" Jan said, spotting Bain fidgeting nervously behind Bard. Bain was soon also swept up in a hug.  "So what brings you two here? Need a fixing for the barge or something?"

Bard shook his head, and looked to Bain. Bain's eyes widened, and he gulped.

"Um, I wanted to know… are you looking for an apprentice?" Bain asked, his tone rising far more than necessary for a question. Bard smiled at him. Jan furrowed his brows for a moment, before gasping.

"Wait! Do _you_ want to apprentice here!?"

Bain nodded.

"Oh, by the Valar! Yes, of course! You can be my apprentice!" Jan practically skipped back over to Bain, wrapping him up in another hug. Bard brought a thumb up to his mouth, worrying it with his teeth, and chuckled at his son's obvious lack of preparedness for Jan. "Wait, do we need to make contracts or anything? Oh, Valar, I've never had an apprentice before—"

"Don't fret, Jan," Bard said. "How's about we give Bain a week in here before we make any contracts?"

"Oh, right, right, of course, that sounds great! Oh, Bain, you'll need an apron… and some gloves…" Jan said, moving off into a corner of the forge farthest from the fire, and digging through a cupboard. "I _know_ I have some extras in here somewhere…" Bard could hear various clinks and clanks from within the cupboard.

"Well then, Bain. I'll be going home now, you make sure to come back by sundown, alright?" Bard said, patting Bain on the shoulder again. Bain looked up at him, his eyes bright and sporting a huge grin.

"Right, da."

Bard nodded at him once. "Bye, Jan! I'll be seeing you again soon, I suspect."

"Yes! Definitely!" Jan said, finally emerging from behind the cupboard door with another thick apron and holding it up to Bain. "I'll be sure to take good care of Bain for ya."

Bard smiled. "I'd expect nothing less," he said.

He lingered for a moment, watching the two as they moved about the forge. For a brief second Bard could almost hear the sound of smokey laughter ringing out amongst the sounds of clanging metal. Sunlight seeped through the clouds and caught itself in the air by one of the small windows. It hung thick and heavy, dust motes dancing in the rays and flowing long and golden like hair.

He knew Bain would make his mother proud.

As he left he let a hand run down the weathered door frame, the pads of his fingers catching slightly on the dips and whorls of the wood.

From the smithy, Bard decided to take the long route home. The outer walkways skirted the last buildings of Laketown, affording Bard a spectacular view of the lake, small patches of ice clouding the water with the onset of winter. While not completely devoid of people, there was much less of a hustle and bustle on the outskirts. In the distance, Bard could make out the stone ruins of Esgaroth before the dragon's arrival. Girion had told Bard the tales of the grandeur of the old trading hub, built up in stone upon the lake. Now they were just shadowed pillars visible at low tide, and the direction where Laketowners sent their burning dead. Freya had been sent there, too.

Bard reached under his outer shirt, finding the two heavy silver rings he always carried hung around his neck. The metal stung his fingertips, but Bard took comfort in the sensation. One ring from his marriage to Mirena, and one from Freya. He sighed softly, bringing his thumb up to his mouth instead. He hadn't intended to fall in love here—nor back in Transylvania, really—but here he was, a widower twice over, having fallen head-over-heels for both of them. Time had only just smoothed over the hurt.

And he would face it all again, all too soon, with Sigrid and Bain and Tilda—Bard shook his head sharply, burying the thoughts in the deep corner of his mind where he kept them, calling on his doggedness to live in the moment instead.

"Well, what do we have here," said an approaching voice. Fighting down revulsion and the urge to growl, Bard turned, tucking his rings back under his outer tunic.

"Don't you have anywhere else to be, Alfrid?" Bard asked, already ready to be done with the conversation. Alfrid sneered.

"Could be asking the same of you," he drawled. "Sending your son off to work while you lollygag about here?"

Bard shrugged. It was always best to not rise to Alfrid's needling. It only ever ended well for Alfrid, what with the Master being in his pocket. Alfrid stepped closer to Bard, and Bard resisted the urge to scrunch his nose. Most humans smelled pleasant to him, but there were some…

"It's no wonder Freya up and died," Alfrid said, almost under his breath but not quite. "You're useless and she was barely any better. Probably couldn't _wait."_

None of the passersby would have heard, but Bard most certainly did. His nails were clenched tightly against his palms, the mild pain being the only thing keeping him from leaping at Alfrid's throat. There was a rumble in his chest, rising before he consciously realized it, and he could feel the strain of his fangs trying to extend.

Mustering all his self-control, Bard took a step back, away from Alfrid's noxious odor. Alfrid, if possible, sneered even more.

"You're only still here because there's no one else stupid enough to venture into that thrice-damned forest, you know," he said. Bard grit his teeth, still trying to keep himself within human standards of anger. What Alfrid had just said, at least, was true; Bard had no doubt that the Master wanted any excuse to throw him in jail at the very least. The memory of lashings across his back made him flinch involuntarily. But Bard had children to care for, now. He couldn't afford jail or lashings. _For Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda_ , he said to himself.

Out loud, he said, "Goodbye, Alfrid," and pushed past him, purposefully flinging his shoulder harder than he needed to and sending Alfrid stumbling.

The creatures far out under the lake stirred uneasily with Bard's anger as he made his way home.

* * *

Tauriel inclined her head to her king, who was sprawled across his throne, wineglass in hand.

"Hîr nín," she said. Thranduil waved a hand.

"No need, Tauriel, it's just us." He took a sip of wine. "You wished to speak with me?"

Tauriel nodded. "Yes. I wished to personally emphasize the gravity of the situation with the spiders." Thranduil shot her a droll look. Tauriel met it and returned it with determination in full. "We almost lost Naevys yesterday, and that wasn't an isolated incident by any means. Every time we go out on patrol, more of the monsters show up, and they're learning, too." By now, Tauriel was pacing the area in front of the throne, her hands locked tight behind her back. Only through sheer force of will was she not flipping daggers.

"Are you saying that your Guard is not strong enough?"

"That's not what I said. We can still defeat them, for the time being, but their numbers and skill at fighting _back_ are increasing, numbers foremost."

"And what do you suggest we do?" Thranduil said, finally sitting up properly.

Tauriel huffed. "You know perfectly well what I suggest, sir."

"Then you also know perfectly well my answer."

"If you would reconsider—"

"But I won't. Like I've told you before, their spawning grounds lie outside our jurisdiction. We have neither incentive nor impetus to go there. Simply maintain the forest clean as best you can, that is your task.”

Silence sat between them, like air heavy with rain. Then Thranduil looked down and for a moment he just watched her with eyes as clear and sharp as the swords he favours. When he spoke again his voice was softer but she could still hear the iron in the words.

“In times like these we must look to our own first.”

Tauriel swallowed back another retort, instead inclining her head once more. "Very well. I'll take out another patrol forthwith."

Thranduil nodded. "Tell Galion to bring down some more of that vintage Dorwinion on your way out, will you?"

"Of course," Tauriel said. She turned and left, taking the wooden stairs three at a time as she made her way to the upper levels of the palace, where her guardsmen generally spent their days.

She paused in the doorway, looking out over the elves, many of whom were looking at her expectantly.  "Celebil," Tauriel said after a few seconds of consideration, striding into the room. A light-orange-haired elf stood up. "Nenneth, Uilon, Aglonor, Triwathel, Gorfuimben, Thindel, Faerthurin. Prepare yourselves, we leave for patrol in half an hour. Gelethin, run down to the cellars and tell Galion that King Thranduil has requested more of the vintage."

Tauriel exited the hall from the other side. She hesitated at the fork in the pathways, but decided that she could pick up her full gear later. For now, she wanted to see the sky.

She turned right, following the tree-trunk-made paths up as far as they went. The trunks narrowed to branches, but at the very top, they spread out and interwove again, creating a small platform. Tauriel padded over to the end, then sat down, her feet dangling over the edge into empty air.

The sun was still some hours from dusk, but hidden behind a thick film of cloud. The heavy greyness bleached the colours of the forest, turning the trees even darker and more dire than usual. Beyond the forest, the Lonely Mountain's peak disappeared into mist, and the lake only just reflected the light. The wind, barely present within the forest proper, skimmed the treetops, sending the leaves chattering against each other.

Tauriel sat and looked out over the landscape for several minutes before she heard soft footsteps behind her. There was only ever one elf who would follow her up here, especially during the daytime.

"Legolas, have you come here to bring me back down? I still have fifteen minutes before the patrol starts, you know."

Legolas sat down next to her, chuckling softly. "No, I merely come to ask the Guard Captain if she would be amenable to another member in her party."

Tauriel eyed him out of the corner of her eye, smiling. "The Guard Captain does not hold any objections."

"My thanks to the Guard Captain."

They sat together in silence for several moments, sharing the experience of air above the forest.

"I saw you down by the river again the other day."

"I consider it only polite to keep Bard informed of the happenings in the forest. He works here, after all."

"Only on the outskirts."

"If we only have 'jurisdiction' within the forest then I will use that to keep anyone _within_ it as safe as I can. I'm Captain of the Guard, this is my duty."

"Did you butt heads with my father again?" Legolas asked, raising an eyebrow at her. Tauriel looked away quickly, though she was sure the tips of her ears were at least a touch red.

"You could say that." She heard Legolas snort. "It's just. The world is so _large_ , and the forest so small, and so much evil lies beyond our borders—the spiders can't possibly be confined to just our forest. We could help so many if we went straight to the source and wiped out the breeding population…"

"I think, Tauriel, that only you would call the forest 'small'."

Tauriel smiled despite herself. "Well, maybe not _small,_ but compared what exists outside…" she turned to lock eyes with Legolas."How long can we remain cut off from the rest of the world?"

Legolas sighed. This, too, was a habitual conversation for Tauriel—Legolas would not speak out against his father, but neither would he try too hard to convince Tauriel to do the same.

"As long as we are ordered to, I suppose," he said, looking off into the distance. Tauriel rolled her eyes, then pushed herself up to stand, offering her hand to Legolas. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet beside her.

"Come, then. Let us go get our bows, patrol is due to start soon."

* * *

"Da, da!" Tilda's frantic voice sounded loud in the confines of their small house as Bard opened the door and stepped in. The rest of his anger dissipated as he saw his daughters, and he knelt down when Tilda ran up to him, carrying her favourite doll.

"What's the matter, Til?" he asked, running a hand over her hair.

"Margy got ripped!" she all but wailed, holding up the doll to show him a ripped seam. Little bits of stuffing were peeking out from the heavy and worn fabric.

"Well, we can't have that now, can we," Bard said, taking Margy into his hands and standing up.

"You can fix her, right da?" Tilda asked, concern written all over her face.

"Of course. Never doubt your da," he said, stepping around her. He walked over to the shelves on the wall where all their sewing materials were kept, grabbing the darning kit and bringing it out to the table, where Sigrid was already sitting. Her writing materials were spread out about her, and she was glaring holes into a sheet of paper with Helga's handwriting all over it.

Bard sat down across from her, and Tilda sat cattycorner to him, looking anxiously at him as he rummaged through the small wicker basket, searching for thread. He pulled out three colors.

"Alright, Til, you get to choose a colour of thread now, see. Margy's gonna have a nice bandage, but you can choose what colour you want," he said, handing the spools over to Tilda, who took them with serious consideration.

"Hey, da," Sigrid asked. Bard glanced over to her.

"Yeah?"

"What's faigun?"

Bard furrowed his brows, and began running through all the words he knew. Admittedly, his Westron still wasn't the best—now and again he stumbled over a word he didn't know, and if he was particularly stressed or tired, his original accent would leak through—but he'd definitely never heard of this particular word. "Show me?" he asked.

"I want this one!" Tilda said, holding up a bright yellow thread.

"Good choice," Bard answered, taking the spool from her while she replaced the two unselected colours into the basket. Sigrid pushed over a piece of yellowed paper, her finger pointing at one particular scribble. Bard squinted at it for a few seconds before it hit him. "Oh! _Feign_ , Sigrid. Feign."

Sigrid pulled the paper back towards herself, and Bard unraveled a bit of string, holding up the length he wanted for Tilda to cut.

"Well that's annoying," Sigrid said. "There's no _g_ -sound in feign!" Bard chuckled.

"Sorry, love. That's just how it is. Oh, thank you," he said as Tilda returned to him the cut thread and the pincushion. He pulled out a needle and threaded it after a few tries. "You want to tie the knot?" he asked Tilda, handing over the thread when she nodded. He looked back as Sigrid. "Anything else?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Not at the moment… is it always this slow, though?"

Bard shook his head as well. "No, once you get used to it, you can read without even thinking about it. It just takes time and practice, is all," he said.

"Time and practice, time and practice," she muttered.

"It was harder, back where I lived, you know. They had multiple scripts." Sigrid raised an eyebrow at him. "Imagine trying to learn to write in Elvish as well," he said, by way of example.

"No, thank you. Learning to write in Westron is already hard enough," Sigrid said, returning to her reading.

"Da, I did it!"

"Good job!" Bard took the now knotted thread from Tilda, then placed Margy on the table, pushing the stuffing farther into her body with a finger. Then he pinched the sides of the fabric where the seam had ripped, and quickly laid the first few stitches, keeping them as even as possible. The yellow of the thread stood out brightly on the worn brown-grey-blues of the doll. "So what do you have to do today?" he asked Sigrid.

"Helga wants me to copy this composition and then write my own about something that interests me…"

"That doesn't sound too hard."

"It's _boring_ , da. And it takes me _forever_ to write anything…"

"Like I said, it just takes practice," Bard said. "Just like fixing dolls does!" he grinned at Tilda, tying off his row of stitches, confident that Margy would survive a bit longer yet at the hands of an eight-year-old. He handed the revived doll off to Tilda.

"Thank you, da!" she said, hugging Margy to her chest before sliding off the chair and running over to where her other two dolls were stored. Bard watched her play for a while, every now and then pitching in on Sigrid's writing work, giving her as much help as he could. His own handwriting could stand for some practice, antiquated as it was.

Eventually, as the sun began nearing the horizon, Bard decided it was time for him to make supper. Tilda had moved on from 'the adventure of the pretty prince' to 'rescuing the princess, remake the third' with her dolls, and Sigrid was about three-quarters through her original composition. Bard was proud of her, though; it had taken him much longer to learn to write.

He moved about, picking some herbs and a bit of garlic from the rows of the stuff hanging from the centre-beam of the house, and putting it all into a large pot. Some venison, from his last hunt, also went into the pot, and Bard finished it all off with some rainwater from the large barrel they kept on the balcony. It wasn't complicated, but it was tasty and the meat helped fill them up. He hung the pot over the hearth, starting up a fire and leaving it be.

The sun had set, and the stew was beginning to heat up. Sigrid was embroidering, and Bard was trying to teach Tilda how to do what her big sister was doing. Judging by Sigrid's occasional muffled snorts, he wasn't doing the best job. After one particularly ill-hidden chuckle, Bard stuck his tongue out at her, and Sigrid dissolved into laugher.

Bain walked in on all three of them laughing. He brought with him the smell of fire and the forge, and Bard instantly stopped.

Memory was a strange thing. Sometimes snippets came back and lingered, like an afterimage, or a ghost. That had been exactly what Freya had smelled like, returning home every evening. The smell of stew lingered in the air, warmth and cheery crackle of the fire adding to the intense feelings of _home_.

Bard stood, and walked over to hug Bain. "How was it?" he asked softly.

"It was so cool!" Bain said, seemingly unaware of the smudge of rust that decorated his cheek. Bard began wiping it off with his thumb, Bain completely unaffected as he raved about all the things Jan had let him do and the even more things Jan had showed him. Bain wandered over to the table, Tilda asking him enough questions to keep him talking while Bard grabbed the three bowls and spoons and ladled strew into them.

Bard handed out the bowls, and then sat down at the table, though he didn't eat. The smell and taste of food wasn't bad, but he preferred to go without the odd weight in his stomach when he could get away with it.

"S'real good, da," Bain said, eating as fast as he could. Now that he was done recounting his day, Bard could see the tiredness begin to set in.

"Thank you," he said. He smiled at Bain, then Tilda and Sigrid in turn. "I'm proud of you all," he said. All three of them looked at him with confusion written on their faces. Tilda and Bain shrugged it off, but Sigrid, ever perceptive, covered his hand with hers.

"We love you too, da," she said. Bard smiled at her again, and nodded. She removed her hand, and went to serve seconds to both Bain and Tilda.

"Thank you," Bard whispered, to low for her to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! life kinda hit us both pretty hard last week, but this chapter's also longer than the rest... so enjoy :D ~Piyo13

Bard woke, as usual, with the dawn. The sun was an itch he couldn't scratch—not painful, but irritating enough that it was difficult to ignore. It was ironic, in a way, that a creature so rooted in the absence of light could be so ruled by it. Or maybe it was just him. Lifetimes amongst humans had taught him to rise and fall with them; not just out of a desire to hide, but also a desire to be with them. Tailoring his schedule to the needs of his children was a small price to pay for their company.

The wood was cold beneath his feet as he walked through the house. His children would not need to be up for a while yet, the sun still barely showing itself above the horizon. Grey water and matching sky outside heralded a chill and the possibility of ice out on the lake.

Bard quickly re-stoked the fire, hoping to fight off the cold before he had to rouse the kids, and tsk'd at the low supply of firewood in their storage. He made himself a mental note to pick up some more after his work had been completed.

Close by his children slept, unaware of him moving about. He could be silent when he chose to be, and did so in this moment, drifting back and forth as he went about cleaning up from the night before. It was a fine thing to celebrate an accomplishment, and Bard was proud of his son’s. Three weeks spent at the forge, an apprenticeship easily secured… Bain was doing well, and his sisters and father had been happy for him.

Every night since the first, Bain had come back with a story to tell or something to show. In those moments, he was so like his mother, and the ache Bard felt in his chest was a welcome one. Tilda was a fey creature, unlike either her father or her mother, light-footed and loving. Sigrid, on the other hand, had followed in his footsteps, and her demeanor showed it—already applying herself to writing, and reading bits of old histories Helga salvaged from who-knows-where, and with a knack for managing time and people... sometimes, Bard couldn't help but worry, wishing she would take a moment for herself to relax.

Making his way downstairs was an exercise in stealth, the wood threatening to creak and groan beneath his weight. Victorious in the end, Bard looked for other things to occupy his attention with. It was too early for melancholy thoughts and despite the revelry of the night before, it boded ill for the coming day.

Stooping to grab a doll of the floor and place it out of harm's way, Bard's attention was drawn once again outside. At ground level he could hear the water lapping against the building, a rhythmic sound as the wind caused peaks and swells further out. It was soothing, like a heartbeat.

Though the lake looked empty, a black scar against the earthy tones of the mountain and the green of the forest, it was teeming with life. Across the town, people were beginning to stir; fishermen readying themselves for the day, people setting up their stalls for the market. And below their feet, hundreds of minds moved about, slow and ageless in the deep.

Indeed, it was far too early to mark the day off as bad, and Bard turned and headed back to his children. The sun was beginning to creep across the floor towards the occupied beds as he arrived back upstairs, and he took it as a sign to start preparing for the day in earnest. 

He made breakfast, just simple porridge with water, and a bit of dried fruit from their stores, still attempting to keep the racket to a minimum though he no longer bothered to mask his steps.

Bain was the first to wake, already excited for the day. Bard smiled fondly at him as he began gulping down his breakfast, eager to leave and begin work—Jan was going to start letting him make fishhooks on his own, beginning to end, for the first time. The forge had been the right choice for Bain; he seemed more alive than ever.

Tilda and Sigrid came to the table more slowly, and a bit more tiredly than their brother. Bard regretted that Sigrid stayed behind to watch Tilda, but Sigrid assured him it was fine—she could work on her writing and reading, as well as sewing, or so she said. Bard wasn't sure she was being honest, but for the moment, there wasn't much else he could do. The neighbors would only take care of Tilda so many times. _Just a few more years_ , he thought at his eldest daughter. _Then you can be who you want to be, no strings attached._

Unsurprisingly, Bain finished first.

"Da, I'm off!"

"Already? Are you sure Jan's even awake?"

"Da-a-a, that doesn't even matter! He told me to be at the forge as early as I could, I have to set up today! That means getting all the metals out, and the tools, and the water, and—"

"Alright, alright, understood, your poor old father made a grave mistake," Bard said, lifting his hands in mock-surrender. Then he reached forward and ruffled Bain's hair. "Go on, get going then." Bain beamed, and practically sprinted out the door. "And be back by sundown!" Bard shouted behind him. Bain lifted a hand in acknowledgement, but didn't bother turning around.

Sigrid helped Bard clean up the breakfast table, and Bard lingered a bit, waiting for the winds to kick up before heading out. He helped Tilda with a bit of sewing, while Sigrid did her own—Bard suspected she was making something for Tilda's birthday, though he hadn't had the chance to ask her about it—but eventually Bard couldn't reasonably postpone his departure any further.

"Tilda, why don't you go downstairs and get a few more scraps from the storage for you to practice on?"

"Okay!" she said, hopping down from her chair and going downstairs.

"Sigrid?"

"Yes, da?"

"While I'm gone, would you be able to pick up some vegetables from the market? We've only oats left in the cupboard." That reminded Bard that he needed to go hunting again; he'd gotten so skilled at suppressing his own hunger that he hardly ever noticed it anymore.

Sigrid made a face, then looked to make sure Tilda was still downstairs before whispering softly, though still loud enough that Bard could make it out, "Alright, but just so you know, we're down to our last few coppers," she said. Bard grimaced. He wasn't due to be paid for another week, at least.

"Don't worry, I'll figure something out," he said. That was one useful thing about being a king or a lonely vagabond: the former, he'd always had enough money to care for his own, and the latter, he'd had no one in need of caring. He touched the rings under his shirt briefly. He'd figure _something_ out, he always did.

"You going, da?" Tilda asked, returning to the room, some scraps of spare fabric in her hand. Bard nodded.

"I'll be back soon, don't worry." He knelt down to Tilda's level. "Now, don't let Sigrid do anything silly like set the house on fire, okay?" Tilda nodded while Sigrid huffed indignantly.

"That was _one time,_ da!"

"Aye, one time too many, love!" He chuckled, then stood back up. "I'll be seeing you both later."

"Say hi to the pretty elf lady!" Tilda said, waving. Bard adjusted his quiver over his shoulder, and hefted his bow.

"I'll let her know," Bard replied, waving back. He left the house, taking the back exit.

He walked to his barge, Sigrid's words flashing through his mind.

The elves paid well, but the Master took more than most could comfortably give. After the damnable taxes—Alfrid had been behind those, no doubt—Bard and many others were left with mere pittances, when compared to their original earnings, and the gap between their pays had been growing larger and larger. It had been a gradual incline, really, almost eloquent in its undertaking, and Bard wondered how many others had noticed. Hilda for certain, Harold for another, maybe.

Nowadays it was even difficult to find other work, with his licensing scheme and dipping into the not-so-legal trade being hindered by spies—damnable lot, really, though Bard couldn't hold it too much against them; they needed money as badly as he—who could, apparently, be successful on occasion. Even now he could see the Master's men, lurking around the town and looking conspicuously inconspicuous. Bard made an extra point to say good morning to each and every single one that stood in his path. The guilty looks they flashed him when he did so were reward enough.

Finally, he made it to his barge, stepping on with practiced ease. He adjusted the sails slightly, letting them counter the current and drag the old craft slowly across the lake. Bard sat down on the stern, one hand on the rudder and the other on his bow.

Despite the turning of the hour the sun was no closer to breaking through the clouds. Instead, if anything, it was growing darker out on the lake. The wind was quickly bringing in a chill that he had been expecting for some time, and it cut through his coat, almost enough to make him shiver. Further out he could see the white mass of ice blocks forming on the water's surface. He grimaced slightly; the fishermen would begin having trouble in the coming weeks if the ice kept building at the same rate.

The wind pulled gently at his hair, and the water against the hull murmured a soothing song. With a practiced hand, Bard steered the barge between crumbling stone columns, the skeletal remains of the late Esgaroth. Fog was beginning to draw in, and he didn't doubt that on his return trip the obstacles would be almost impossible to see—the first few years had been rough navigating, but by now Bard was as used to the waters as any Laketowner born and bred.

Clearing them, he tied the rudder steady and let go, stretching his arm and trusting the current and the wind to keep him on course.

The barrels to be collected would be a larger quantity than usual, in light of the elvish celebrations. Tauriel had told him once about Mereth en-Gilith, a festival created to honour the heavenly lights and in turn Gilthoniel, the Kindler of Stars. She had spoken of it in the past with a softness that he rarely saw. 

A creature of the night though he might be, the beauty of the stars was often lost to him. Even as a human, he had not given them much consideration but now, when Tauriel spoke of them, he could almost see their glittering charm. Whereas before he had neither the time nor the inclination to do so, now he couldn't help but turn to them, on occasion. His memories always seemed too dark and lonely to be stars.

He had heard of Gilthoniel in the past, even before settling in Laketown. Girion had often spoken of The Lady of the Stars, who could hear the cries of all the races. He doubted that she could hear his. Or, if she could, that she cared. He was no child of Ilúvatar; at best he was akin to the abominations created by Melkor. His God was not one these, not of the Valar that he had been told of so many years ago.

No, his God had been a darker, a bloodthirstier kind; and His demons as well.

The harsh light of the sun crossed Bards face, a small gap in the clouds allowing the rays to pass. It was enough to knock him out of his thoughts, and he scowled. Musing on gods and goddesses was something best avoided, wherever possible. After all, it was unlikely that he would get  to face the afterlife anytime soon, and there was already too much that required his attention amongst the living.

Like his children. Like money.

* * *

Tauriel seethed. Sent from the throne room in shame, she found herself wishing she were a wolf, armed with sharp fangs and a fearsome growl instead of blunt fingers and dull teeth. She’d show the orc what a _dog_ could do.

Regardless of the lack, her kin still dispersed quickly before her as she stalked down into the dungeons. Even her footsteps padded louder than usual with stiff rage.

Cell after cell stood empty, but that wasn't what made anger burn in her chest.  _That baseborn orc._ Orcs were creatures with no regard for life, or beauty. The taunts towards her own person were nothing, just stale air passing through lungs which had not yet realized that their time was done. But to hear one so callously talk about Kíli, the youngest dwarf, the youngest _prince…_

She should not have allowed her feelings to show so brazenly in front of the king. His hatred of the dwarves was as well known as their hatred for him.

_I do not care about one dead dwarf._

What _would_ he care for the deaths of any outside of their kin? What _should_ he care, for that matter? The surviving orcs now tracked the Company, and would most likely continue to do so as they made their way to Erebor. She wasn't naive enough to consider the dwarves out of the fight, despite their lack of weapons or armour. She had seen them on the river, completely in tune with one another, and devastatingly creative even in their mostly disarmed state.

They would make it to their home, of that Tauriel had no doubt. She just worried about what would follow them, and what their arrival would herald.

Things were changing; powers shifting and plots set into motion. She could feel it like a brewing storm on the horizon, saw it in the way dark creatures stepped willingly into places where they had not for years. Spiders grew bolder and stronger, the orcs more well equipped than those she had seen in the past… out beyond their borders, a darkness was growing; it slithered closer to the forest with each passing day.

And now the threat of dragon fire hung over their heads as well, mounting with each mile the dwarves covered.

She wanted to know how they'd escaped. Keys, after all, didn't exactly wander upstairs and unlock doors of their own will, did they? Or, for that matter, return nicely to their proper rung after the fact. Magic couldn't have had a role, not without alerting King Thranduil—his mind was finely tuned to magic and sorcery, after all.

Tauriel turned her back on the open cell that had once held Kíli. She'd spent enough time there in the past weeks that she could almost recite from memory the location of every chip in the stonework, every mark on the bars.

Though her mood had soured since Mereth en-Gilith had begun, the celebration had still seemed to gift her with something. A friend, perhaps (more, she hoped, but barely dared think).

Putting it out of mind, she headed further down into the cellars below. The room was dimly lit and empty of both people and the wooden barrels which had once sat, stacked heavy, over the trapdoor.

The keys hung in their proper place, taunting her.

An elf would not have let them out, and all the dwarves had been accounted for. That left only one possible conclusion: that they’d missed something—or some _one_. A companion of theirs, maybe? One sly enough to break them out… smuggling dwarves under the noses of a forest full of elves, even celebrating ones, was not a feat to take lightly. In the heat of battle she hadn't thought to count the smaller figures that clung to the barrels in the water. Tauriel hated to admit it, even to herself, but she wouldn't be surprised if there had been one more member, one that she had missed.

In truth, the only thing she could remember with crystal clarity was the cry Kíli had let out as the arrow in his leg snapped.

It seemed as if more and more creatures were slipping through borders either undetected or undeterred. First had come the spiders, and then that _thing_ , whatever it was. Now mysterious dwarf-friends and _orcs_.

Though she had yet to hear from Bard or any other sources of similar troubles beyond the forest, it could only be a matter of time.

Lord Thranduil had grown distant from the other races. He was content to ignore the world outside his borders, willing to wait and outlast whatever came. But humans and dwarves could not, she knew. They had neither the time nor the luxury, and despite what some thought, Tauriel knew that a long life did not necessarily make a worthy one. To abandon them would be a mistake—most were innocents, mere children, not to be caught in a battle against darkness they couldn't win.

Not with no help from the elves.

With strengthening resolve, Tauriel turned her back to the cellar and let slip her mind perfectly placed keys. She walked swiftly to the armoury, collecting her outdoor cloak and re-fastening her vambraces. Looking around, she replenished her store of arrows and grabbed her bow. Her daggers, as always, had never left her side.

She moved easily along the stone pathways that wound themselves between pillars and trees. Making sure to skirt the throne room, she made good time, the others apparently performing their duties elsewhere. Soon the main gate stood before her, tall doors heavy and wide open. They wouldn't remain so for long.

Guards manned the gate, but Tauriel straightened her shoulders and walked forward, head held high. Two of them stood clad in heavy armour, their faces masked, but the third wore clothing more similar to hers. As she got closer she recognized him—Elros. He had been mostly silent since the dwarves had escaped; he'd been left in charge of the keys that night.

“My Captain,” Elros said, seeming startled at her appearance. “What news? Are we to move out?” He looked to her bow as he spoke, slung comfortably over her shoulder along with a full quiver of arrows.

“No.” She shifted, moving past him slightly. “The King bade me track the orc pack while the sun still sits high. He expects that they will move beyond our borders quickly, but he would like confirmation for himself.”

Elros frowned. It was rare that any left alone nowadays, even her. “Do you wish for a partner, Captain? It would not take long to arm myself.”

This gave her a pause. He looked almost eager to leave, and she suspected he was. No one blamed him for what had happened, not even the king, but it was likely that he himself did. To get away would be a relief… but alas, it wasn't one she could afford to give him.

“Not this time, my friend,” she said with an apologetic smile. “My partner will be along shortly after he finishes with his affairs, I just wished to get a head start.” She walked further out over the bridge before turning to look back at him again. “Besides, I only go to track; I have no wish to engage them.” The way he was looking at her and the daggers at her side told Tauriel that he didn’t believe her. Still, he didn't offer further comment, merely inclining his head in acknowledgement.

She was almost to the other side when he called out to her, “Until next we meet, Tauriel! May your bow be strong!”

She looked back at him and smiled again. “And your arrows swift!” she called back.

Then she leapt from stone to earth.

Stepping off the Elven Road, the world seemed to change. Dappled sunlight lent the trees by the path a green glow, the moss grew on the twisted and gnarled roots thick and lush. But ahead of her, all that was green and good gave way to thick, creeping shadow. She loved the forest—it was her _home_ , before all else—but more and more she could see why other races had taken to calling it Mirkwood.

She made good time and was halfway to the river gates when she heard the horn sound. The reverberating note caused her to freeze momentarily, and she briefly considered turning back and returning to the halls, as the horn compelled her to do. She glanced back in the direction she'd come, weighing the implicit order against her need to leave, to help.

She pressed on.

The forest was silent and still in the aftermath of the scuffle, animals having fled the violence that had erupted without warning. Signs of the conflict littered the ground, from broken branches to the remains of the occasional orc. Though most of corpses were gone, washed away with the water, others remained. The elves had left them where they’d fallen in favour of collecting their own dead, broken bows, and blood-stained swords. Too much death in too short a time, her scouts unprepared for the assault.

Tauriel followed the course of the river, dancing between the branches that hung low over the banks, and making her way carefully over the jagged stone that occasionally jutted up from the earth where it hadn't been worn smooth.

A flash of metal caught her eye and Tauriel dashed across one of the fallen trees that spanned the two riversides. The ground underneath her feet was hard where it wasn't carpeted with slick moss, and painted black with blood, the bodies of fallen orcs forming a haphazard circle. At its centre, the warped metal pieces glinting in a ray of sunshine, were the splintered remains of a barrel.

The barrels…

Bard would have been sent to collect them at the mouth of the river. In fact, he would have been waiting there, long before the escape had taken place. Despite how fleeting their meetings were and how far apart they were spaced, Tauriel considered him a friend, and thought she knew him well. Though rough-hewn and on occasion downright suspicious, he was kind.

The dwarves were desperate, and in their desperation they would take their chances with the human, as opposed to travelling on foot around the lake. They would lead the orcs right to Laketown without second thought.

Right to Bard and right to his children.  

Part of her desperately wished that Bard would curb his impulse to help, wished he would set it aside out of a desire to avoid stirring up bad blood with the elves, the dwarves clearly having passed through uninvited. However, faced with people, some injured, others worn and old, and all no doubt asking for his help, he would give it. Bard was, after all, a kind man.

Looking out towards the Long Lake, Tauriel paused and took a breath. Legolas would come after her soon, as he always did, so she wouldn't be alone. She continued following the course of the river, making her way to the small docks where Bard always came.

She would do this—she would check on Bard, check on Kíli, and if that took her beyond the forest's borders, well. She'd deal with _that_ particular bridge when she came to it.

* * *

The barrels were late. This happened every once in a while; Tauriel had once told him that occasionally the elves in charge of returning the barrels would indulge themselves in too much wine, and fall asleep—Bard still had trouble believing a creature as graceful as Tauriel could get drunk, let alone to the point of passing out, but in the years he'd been bargeman, the barrels had come down late or not at all several times.

Though, to be truthful, it didn't bother him. The longer he spent lakeside, the less time he would have to spend under the thumb of the Master. The forest itself was also a welcome change from the town. Out at the borders of the elvish land, the hustle and bustle of the trading town became almost unnoticeable. Unless he tried to hear it, the sounds of the water and the forest masked it with ease.

That being said, there was something different this time, a nagging feeling at the back of his mind, and Bard kept bow close to his side. There was not a breath of wind, and birdsong came sparingly or not at all. For a moment he couldn't help but linger by the barge. Behind him, the fog had grown thicker out over the water, and Laketown was nothing but a shadow of itself.

Clouds rolled in thick and low over the mountains and the light was thin.

Bow in hand, Bard steeled his nerves and stepped off to the forest to wait. It was not as if he had much to fear in these woods, anyway—or at least, he had less to fear than most. 

Not having much else to do he sat down in the shade just within the tree line. The air amongst the trees was thick with the smell of damp earth and rotting leaves. He closed his eyes and let his hearing extend beyond him. There were several minutes of forest silence, as the birds began chirping once more and small insects rustled amongst the peat-covered floor.

The sun still shone over Mirkwood, not quite blazing but still enough to make the treetops glow with light. Little of it would reach the forest floor where the trees grew thickest, but here at the edge of the forest, light still managed to find its way down, twisting and turning through the thinner branches to dapple the ground in shifting patterns.

Bit by bit the atmosphere was lightening, but it didn't change the fact that something had happened.

He put it out of his mind as best he could. Whatever it was, it was over, and there was nothing he could do about it. Besides, the forest had Tauriel to guard it, and he couldn't think of a better source of protection.

The red-headed elf could be as fiery as her hair when the occasion called for it, even if majority of the time she was stoic and calm to a fault. What had surprised him most, though, was her dry sense of humour—she had a particular talent for creative insults. Bard both silently rejoiced and despaired at the thought of her one day meeting his children. He suspected that he wouldn't have a moment's peace afterwards.

At the thought of his children a small grin found its way to his mouth. By this time Bain was almost sure to have found or made new stories to tell them later. Bard couldn't deny that hearing about his work in the forge was bittersweet, but to see his son happy was a pleasure and he wouldn't change it for the world.

Meanwhile, Sigrid would no doubt be torn between amusement and murder at her sister's antics, a common enough theme in their household. His youngest was a fountain of energy and mischief; the last time he left to collect the barrels he'd returned to the news that Tilda had almost managed to sneak her way to the top of Percy’s watch-house before being spotted, apparently eager to watch for her Da’s return.

If she had only tried asking her older sister for pointers, she might have succeeded. Sigrid was a master at hiding, and it had caused Bard and her mother no end of grief.

Between the sounds of the forest and the soft rippling of running water, Bard slipped into a light doze. Even so, his bow sat across his knees, ready to be used at a moment's notice. To be overconfident would be folly, and he had always considered himself a sensible man.

The sun moved overhead, and the shadows shifted with it, until an inconvenient ray of sunlight was cast over his eyes, making them sting slightly. It was as he was shifting that he heard it—the distinctive sound of barrels in water. There was a heavy splash, no doubt the sound of the barrels rounding the river bend.

Only… they were accompanied by voices?

Bard quickly found his feet and moved low, bow at the ready, until he was behind some scraggly roots, the voices growing ever louder. It seemed to be mostly grunts and 'hang on’s, but the roar of the rapids still masked the lower chatter. Settling in closer he finally trained his eyes on the river.

Bard almost dropped his arrow as a barrel washed ashore and almost knocked its previous occupant out with its bulk, the sodden figure cursing in a language foreign to Bard's ears. _A dwarf!_ Girion had told him the dwarves had all been driven out and away by the dragon… what were these ones doing here?

One by one, dwarves grouped together and clambered further ashore. They bickered amongst themselves, stripping off soaking boots and socks and wringing them out to the best of their abilities. For a couple of seconds, Bard watched. The barrels didn't seem to be in the best shape, bearing the marks of axes, swords, and the broken shafts of arrows. Bard squinted. The arrows didn't seem to be of elvish make, far too crude and _black_ , of all things…

Quietly, Bard looped around behind them, walking up to the top of the rocky hill that bordered the riverbank. He stood up, making sure to keep his arrow nocked. The dwarf who first noticed his presence, a young looking one with knitted clothing, turned slowly, every line of his face tense and fearful. His demeanour alerted the other dwarves, and one took a step towards Bard, brandishing a large stick.

Bard shot it before he had time to think, the impact of the arrow splitting the wood in two. A flicker of motion caught the corner of Bard's eye, and another arrow sailed away, knocking a rock out of a dwarf's hand. Bard had a third arrow nocked and drawn before the dwarf even realized his impromptu weapon was missing.

Bard stared with hard eyes at the assemblage of dwarves. "Do that again and you're dead."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long... both of us got kind of run over by life. In any case, I hope you enjoy!

Complete silence had fallen over the company of dwarves. Bard glared as fiercely as he could, his arrow still at full draw. He counted fourteen of them. Thirteen dwarves in varying state of undress and one other; a small person, smaller than the dwarves, and clean shaven.

He could smell blood on the air, watery and bitter. 

Finally, one dwarf on the edge of the group moved forward, hands held up placatingly. His white beard fork-tailed at the bottom, and he continued to approach slowly, despite Bard pointing an arrow directly at him.

"Excuse me, but you're from Laketown, if I'm not mistaken?" Bard hesitated a moment, and the dwarf pointed behind Bard's shoulder, "That barge over there, it wouldn't be available for hire, would it?"

Bard snorted softly, lowering his bow and re-sheathing his arrow. Whoever these dwarves were, they were no danger to him; they didn't even have weapons on them, and if their biggest concern was getting to Laketown… Choosing to ignore the question for now Bard moved down the rocky outcrop and back towards his barge.

He had been expecting threats, or begging, not offers of employment. He looked back at them again. They all looked miserable, clothes clinging to them and dripping with water. They reminded him of the time the old moggy that hung around the fish markets had fallen into the lake.

Regardless, Bard still had a job to do. Some of the barrels had been drawn up onto the shore along with the dwarves but most were still bobbing about in the shallows by the mouth of the river.

He went back to the barge to retrieve his hook. When he turned back he could see a split second of alarm on their faces before he made a deliberate show of heading directly towards the steadily drifting barrels. With a deftness due to experience he hooked his first one.

He could hear them muttering amongst themselves but only gave them half an ear. They seemed to be arguing about payment, how much and whether or not they even should. Bard couldn't help but scoff; prideful dwarves were nothing new, but if any one of them thought to take his barge then they had another thing coming. Besides, it seemed they wanted to cross the lake, and for all a dwarf's talents. he had never heard of them as river people. The few he had seen travelling by boat, long back when trade between the Long Lake and the Iron Hills was better, had never seemed quite at ease.

They were made for solid earth and solider rock beneath their feet, not shifting water.

He worked swiftly, corralling all the barrels onto land. Each and every one of them was splintered, some still with arrowheads imbedded in the tough wood, the remains of shattered black shafts barely visible. A few of the barrels were missing and Bard suspected that wherever they were, they were likely in pieces.

Placing the hook back onto the barge Bard turned his attention fully towards the dwarves, keeping his back turned and ears open. Every now and then he caught a name but he didn't bother trying to link them to faces, at least not yet. Soon enough the bickering behind him grew annoying; some obviously had sense such as the one who had spoken to him but others seemed brash.

Better to end this, and end it on his terms.

"What makes you think I will help you?" he cut in, double-checking the strength of the mooring knots before depositing his bow on the prow.

There was a moment as their conversations stuttered to a stop before the white bearded dwarf stepped forward once again. Apparently he was their designated negotiator.  

"Those boots have seen better days," the dwarf replied. Bard looked down at the tattered leathers he'd been wearing for years, and conceded the point. Outwardly, though, he merely shrugged at the dwarf, and grabbed the barrel nearest him, rolling it towards the barge. "As has that coat. No doubt you have some hungry mouths to feed. How many bairns?"

Bard thought ruefully about Sigrid's earlier comment— _not hungry mouths yet, but soon…_ "A boy and two girls," he said, seeing no harm in telling the dwarf.

"And your wife, I'd imagine she's a beauty."

Bard paused for a moment, letting his eyes flicker shut for a moment before turning. "Aye. She was."

_They both were._

The dwarf quickly lost his amiable expression, replaced with remorse. It seemed that this dwarf, at least, valued tact.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"Oh come on, come on, enough with the niceties," another dwarf cut out, practically growling. Bard heaved the barrel onto the barge and then turned, looking at the dwarf in question disapprovingly. They were the same one that had threatened him with a stick.

"What's your hurry?" Bard asked, perhaps more aggressively than he'd originally intended and with a smile that he usually reserved for Alfrid and his ilk. Really, it wasn't much of a smile at all.

"What's it to you?" the dwarf retorted. The depth of suspicion in his eyes was impressive if nothing else. Bard raised a single eyebrow. Well, if the dwarf was asking…

Bard took as step forward, graceful as he moved from the rocking barge to solid stone. He let his gaze sweep over the group. “I would like to know who you are and what you are doing in these lands."

The white-haired dwarf took another step forward, hastily cutting off whatever anyone else was about to say. "We are simple merchants from the Blue Mountains, journeying to see our kin in the Iron Hills." It was true that the Iron Hills dwarves had on occasion passed by Laketown—several had been friends of Freya, that much he knew. It was also true that neither they nor their kin had made the journey in a few years.

He also highly doubted that 'simple merchants' would find themselves sailing downstream in the Elvenking's barrels, pursued by the sounds of battle.

"Simple merchants, you say?" he retorted, looking the distinctly un-merchant-like assortment over. Not a single ware on any of them, to start with. If that was the story they gave then they must be truly desperate, or think him stupid.

Bard pushed another barrel onto the barge, rocking it slightly and allowing himself to feel insulted on his own behalf.

Another dwarf stepped forward, younger this time and with long, dark hair that sat dripping and tangled over his shoulders. He had an air about him that seemed familiar to Bard, something in the way he carried himself.

"We'll need food, supplies, and weapons.” His voice was strong and steady. “Can you help us?" Dark eyes sat fixed on Bard and it clicked.

Ah, that was it. Leadership.

Whoever this dwarf in particular was, he was the uncontested leader of the group, of that Bard had no doubt. He moved another barrel onto the barge and turned to face them all, allowing a hand to rub pointedly over one of the gouges in the wood. He looked back at the dwarf.

"I know where the barrels come from," he said.

"What of it?" the dwarf said, the look in his eye daring Bard to keep going. Unfortunately for the dwarf, Bard wasn't so easily intimidated. He collected himself and considered his words carefully and idea beginning to form.

"I don't know what business you had with the elves,” he began slowly, “but I don't think it ended well.”

They shifted, nervous, and Bard let them wait for a moment before he continued.

“No one enters Laketown but by leave of the Master." A truth Bard didn't _like_ , to be certain, but that he would use to his advantage. "All his wealth comes from trade with the Woodland Realm.” Bard let out a small laugh. “He will see you in irons before risking the wrath of King Thranduil."

Bard grabbed the last barrel, rolling it into place with the others. He walked onto the barge, untying his mooring knot and tossing the rope to the white-haired dwarf who caught it. He saw the leader dwarf mouthing at the white-bearded one.

The white-bearded one shook his head a little, before stepping forward in a hurry to look at Bard pleadingly. "I'll wager there are ways to enter that town unseen," he said.

Bard looked down and rested a hand on the second mooring knot, not untying it yet. He knew that it wasn't the nicest thing that he’d ever done, but battles had taught him patience and living in Laketown had taught him how to bargain.

“Aye," he said slowly, deliberately. "But for that, you will need a smuggler."

Bard looked up to find the white-bearded dwarf in front of him. “For which we will pay double," the dwarf was quick to say.

Bard heard Sigrid's words flashed in his memory once again. Bard glanced around quickly, briefly letting his senses expand enough to catch most of the surrounding forest. No one save them. He looked back at the dwarf, who hadn't looked away and made himself stay quiet as the seconds ticked by. They needed him, but Bard wanted something from them too. Promises—or at least something amounting to one, anyway.

The silence was tense when Bard heard it, coming from the one he had first seen, knit wear still wet. A quiet ‘please’ obviously not meant to be heard.

Bard made a point of sighing, then motioned with his hand for the lot to climb aboard his barge.

One in particular—the one that was oddly beardless and, upon closer inspection, not wearing any shoes and carried with him the heady scent of good earth —stopped briefly as he got on the barge.

"I just wanted to say, thank you, this is rather very kind of you."

That was the last thing Bard had been expecting, and it took him a moment to collect himself enough to reply. “Not so much a kindness really, seeing as how I’m getting paid for it.” He couldn't help but point out. “But you’re welcome, Master…Dwarf?”

He chuckled at that. "Oh, no, you're awfully mistaken, I'm no dwarf, Eru forbid—no, no, I'm a Hobbit, good Master…?"

"Bard. My name's Bard."

"Good Master Bard. Bilbo Baggins the Hobbit, of Bag End, Hobbiton," the hobbit said primly. Bard nodded, unable to contain a small smile.

“That being said,” Bilbo continued, “I get the feeling that we can at least trust you not to tip us overboard at any point, which is more than can be said for a lot of people nowadays.”

Bard snorted and watched as the tall one— Dwalin, he believed, but wasn't sure— stepped gingerly onto the barge with a curse. “Some of you at least,” Bard muttered. “Others may have to watch out some.”

Bilbo turned to watch as well, just in time to catch one of them almost trip on the hook. The violent curse that followed was enough to send the hobbit's eyes rolling. He gave Bard a conspiring look. “I may just help you with that.”

Bard smiled again.

“Glad to hear that, Bilbo Baggins of Bag End. And welcome aboard."

* * *

There was a smell on the wind, a powerful one of rotten flesh.

The remains of a deer lay scattered on the rock, blood pooling in the dips and hollows, mixing with the water that collected from the spray. Tauriel looked down at the ruined animal and felt a surge of anger.

This is what happened when creatures such as Orcs were left to roam as they pleased.

The deer hadn't deserved an end such as that, and its carcass wouldn't even feed the other animals in the forest. The scent of Orc lingered too near, near enough that no scavenger would dare approach the meat.

She slowed respectfully as she passed, but quickly turned her head away and kept moving.

In the distance the river spilled into the lake, and for the moment the water ran calm. On the opposite bank, the outcropping of rock and trees dropped away in a sudden fall, and beyond that she could see the Long Lake stretch out before her in the distance. It was shrouded in mist, thick enough that she could barely see the vaguest impression of a town, let alone the opposite shore.

On a good day when the sky was clear, even a human could see that much, but now her vision felt blinkered.

Her vision, not her hearing.

The faintest stirring of fabric against fabric, of skin against wood. Her hand crept towards her bow and she turned, dropping into a crouch. She aimed with steady hands and couldn’t quite stop the slight smile on her face.

“I thought you were and Orc,” she called lightly.

Legolas stood before her, his bow raised in a mirror image to hers. “If I were an Orc,” he said, “you would be dead.”

The both lowered their bows.

“Tauriel.” He stepped lightly towards her. “You cannot hunt thirty Orcs on your own.” His brow was furrowed and the concern in his voice was clear. She smiled outright this time, a small thing, but there nonetheless.

“But I’m not on my own,” she replied with a knowing look.

Legolas came to a stop beside her and stared. “You knew I would come.” A statement, not a question but she nodded anyway.

She looked back out at the lake, but the water was still shrouded.

“The king is angry, Tauriel.” Her eyes slid shut. To know it was one thing, but to hear it was another.

Legolas continued. “For six hundred years my father has protected you, favoured you.” He caught her eyes again. “You defied his orders. You betrayed his trust.” She looked away. “Come back with me, he will forgive you.”

And that was it, wasn't it. The king might very well forgive her.

“But I will not.”

Tauriel turned to look at him fully. He was her prince, her _friend,_ and she needed him to understand. “If I go back, I will not forgive myself. The king has never let Orc filth roam our lands, yet he would let this pack cross our borders and kill our prisoners.” Their prisoners, their allies, and her friends. She turned from him to walk closer to the river's edge, the stone slick under her feet.

“It is not our fight,” he said quietly.

“ _It is our fight,_ ” Tauriel bit out. “It will not end here.” Why couldn't he see that? Why couldn't any of them see that? “With every victory, this evil will grow. If your father has his way, we will do nothing.” Her lips turned down and she drifted towards him. This time, it was he who couldn't meet her eyes.

“We will hide within our walls, live our lives away from the light, and let darkness descend.”

Now he looked at her and she could see frustration and stubbornness in his eyes. Sometimes, she thought, he looked so much like his father. Thankfully, she could be more stubborn than either of them.

“Are we not part of this world?” She stepped closer. The dead deer lay a few feet from them, rent apart. Her eyes flickered to it.

“Tell me, mellon,” she said “when did we let evil become stronger than us?”

* * *

The fog had returned to the lake in full as Bard took them back, obscuring the ruins of the old Esgaroth to the point that they were invisible to any who didn't know the waters. A chunk of ice bumped up against the barge. Bard picked up a long pole he stored against the side rail, pulling it out and dunking it into the water just as he heard the dwarves collectively draw panicked breath.

"Watch out!" one of them called, the one that sported the funny hat. Bard huffed, and used the pole and his strength to push the barge just far enough away from the weathered and moss-covered column to not do any damage.

The leader glared stormily over at Bard. "What are you trying to do, drown us?" Bard raised both his eyebrows, nonplussed.

"I was born and bred on these waters, Master Dwarf. If I wanted to drown you, I would not do it here," he replied mildly, the lie slipping off his tongue as easily. The dwarves would certainly not bother to ask Bard's pedigree around Laketown, and even if they did—the Laketowners were a close-knit lot, and unless the dwarves managed to question Alfrid, Bard doubted anyone would divulge any information about him without asking first.

The dwarves all grumbled, turning their backs to Bard and continuing on with their conversation. Unfortunately for them, Bard's hearing was much, much better than the mere length of his barge, and he figured it was only fair he listened in—he was bringing them to Laketown, after all; better to assess if they were going to be a threat now, rather than later.

Ultimately, he had only been partially lying, before—there _were_ better places to drown someone, if need be, and bodies sank in cold water.

"Oh, I have had _enough_ of this lippy lakeman. I say we throw him over the side and be done with him," said the one bald dwarf, the one Bard had pegged as Dwalin.

"Bard, his name's Bard," Bilbo Baggins said, somewhat angrily.

Funny hat spoke next. "How do you know?"

"I asked him," Bilbo Baggins retorted, and Bard worked hard to not chuckle. They didn't need to know he was listening.

"I don't care what he calls himself, I don't like him," Dwalin insisted.

"We do not have to like him, we simply have to pay him. Come on now, lads, turn out your pockets," White Beard—Bard hadn't managed to catch his name—said, rather matronly. There was a loud rustle of thirteen coats and shirts and pockets being rummaged through. Bard distinctly heard the clink of coins, and a part of him felt relieved, that he would, in fact, be getting paid.

"How do we know he won't betray us?" Dwalin said, softly.

"We don't," the leader replied, equally as soft. This time, Bard did smile.

He stopped focusing on the conversation for the next few moments, though, as they approached a particularly tricky patch of currents, and he needed his full focus to navigate. The water of the lake was almost black under the overcast sky and eerily still on the surface. Bard could feel beyond that, and knew the currents as well as the creatures who occasionally swam them did.

Once those currents were passed, however, Bard noticed the odd silence that had fallen over the barge. He looked back at the dwarves to find the staring. For a brief moment the winds had changed and the clouds shifted, just enough to temporarily clear a view line to the far side of the lake.

Through the thinning fog, reaching skywards like one of the cathedrals of his birthplace, stood the Lonely Mountain.

Even Bard could admit to himself that the sight was one that could inspire awe. There had been legends he’d heard as a child of great beings that stalked the earth, taller than the tallest mountain. That when they died, their bodies rotted to leave behind skeletons so great and vast that they formed the mountain ranges that lay scattered across the land.

Bard could almost feel the mountain looking at him, a great unknowable thing; and thought to himself that if that legend had been true, then the Lonely Mountain would have been a king.

Also visible, however, were the tops of the outskirts of Laketown, approaching faster than Bard had originally thought. He cursed, then left the rudder and strode towards the dwarves, who turned to look at him owlishly.

"The money, quick, give it to me," Bard said, glancing back at the outpost. No one was out yet, so hopefully he hadn't been spotted.

The leader stepped up into Bard's personal space, sneering. "We'll pay you when we get our provisions, but not before."

Bard stared him down. "If you value your freedom, you'll do as I say. There are guards ahead." The dwarves all turned to see the approaching buildings. The leader made a deep grumbling noise, but jerked his head at White Beard, who approached Bard and handed the money over. "Good," Bard said, ignoring the way the silver cut into his fingers, his bargeman's gloves protecting his palm from harm, "Now get into the barrels."

" _What?_ " Dwalin hissed.

"Would you rather they see you?" Bard demanded. He glanced again at the outpost. "You hired me as your smuggler; let me do the smuggling. Now do as I say and get into the barrels."

There was a moment's heavy tension aboard the barge, but finally the leader nodded, and all thirteen of them managed to fit themselves once again into the barrels, the leader and Bilbo Baggins doubling up to account for the missing barrel, which Bard found both curious and oddly amusing.

He shrugged the thought off, however, as they approached the first house. Suddenly, Bard was struck by an idea. He pulled the barge over, tying it off quickly and ignoring the mutterings of the dwarves and single hobbit. Instead, he approached Byron, who was busily folding nets.

"Hello, Byron," Bard called out. The man looked up, ruddy complexion worn down from many years on the lake. He smiled when he recognised Bard.

"Hullo, Bard! What can I be helpin' ye with 'aday?"

"Nothing much, my friend; if anything, I had an offer to make to you—I'm bringing the barge into town tonight, and I was wondering if I might bring in some of your fish as well? I'll even buy it off you now if you like," Bard said, glancing meaningfully at the barrels. Byron looked between Bard and the barrels twice, confused, but then it dawned on him. He tapped the side of his nose.

"O' course, 'o course, that sounds like a wunnerful deal," Byron said. "Ye'll be payin' a'front or later?"

Bard smiled thankfully. "I can pay you now—there's twelve barrels, and each of them is currently full a half, so we'll make it six. What's your price?"

Byron considered. "Six barrels o' fish… ye got twelve silvers?"

Bard pulled out the coins the dwarves had given him, ignoring the slight burn through his gloves and the bright sheen that accompanied them as they settled in his palm, and counted out twelve. He handed them over to Byron, who took them and bit on one of the coins. He nodded, then shook Bard's hand.

"Excellent doin' business with ye," he said.

"The very same," Bard returned. Then Byron turned and shouted into his house, and his son came out, bearing a basket of fish and a confused look. Bard and Byron helped him load the fish on top of the dwarves, topping off the large elven barrels. Bard took particular delight in the sputtering of the dwarves as they realised what was going on.

"Thank you again!" Bard called out to Byron as he unmoored the ship again and continued pushing it further into town.

"Mahal's hairy _balls_ ," one of the barrels said, and Bard kicked it, earning a muffled 'ow'.

"Quiet!" Bard said, low and urgent. "We're approaching the toll gate."

No sooner had Bard said that, than he heard Percy's voice carrying out over the water.

"Halt! Goods inspection! Papers, please." Percy wandered out of the little shack he called his office, and squinted in the sudden light. "Oh, it's you, Bard."

Bard smiled, coasting the barge close to the docks and stepping off, then fishing around in his coat for the requisite papers. "Morning, Percy," he said, handing over the scrap of parchment.

"Anything to declare?" Percy asked in a bored tone, rolling his eyes. This was a discussion he and Bard had every other day, and Percy only ever kept it up for appearances.

"Nothing, but that I am cold and tired, and ready for home," Bard returned. Percy chuckled.

"You and me both," he said, waving the papers a bit as he went back into his office to stamp them. Bard used the time to glance around—already he could see two of the Master's spies watching him with a sad level of discreetness. Bard frowned slightly and took a breath.

Scattered though out the area a few bats hung still awake amongst the creaking wood. They chittered quietly in the still air and in a moment he was able to pinpoint a few other familiar faces that would be waiting for him. Most notably, Alfrid was heading their way, even as Percy stamped. Bard began to map out the best ways to get the dwarves into his house—for that had to be their in-between station, there wasn't any other option—without being seen.

Percy came back out, waving a now-stamped piece of paper. "Here we are, all in order," he said, holding the paper out to Bard. Bard extended a hand to take the paper, but before he could, it was snatched out of the air.

"Not so fast," Alfrid drawled, making a show of reading the paper. Bard really wanted nothing more than to wring that man's neck. Alfrid looked at the barge, then back at the paper, then back at the barge. Bard noticed the three soldiers that had been posted a few meters down coming closer now.

"Consignment of empty barrels from the Woodland Realm. Only, they're not empty, are they, _Bard_?" Alfrid tossed the paper into the air, where it floated for a few seconds before tumbling into the cold lake water. "If I recall correctly, you're licensed as a bargeman, not a fisherman."

Bard tensed as Alfrid strode over to the barge, grabbing a fish off the top of the nearest barrel. Bard resisted the urge to twitch. "That's none of your business," he told Alfrid, immediately regretting his words.

" _Wrong!_ " Alfrid sing-songed. "It's the _Master's_ business, which makes it _my_ business!"

Taking a breath, Bard forced himself to relax against the side of the barge. "Oh come on, Alfrid, have a heart. People need to eat!"

Alfrid sneered. "These fish are _il-le-gal_ ," he said, then snapped his fingers at the guards. "Empty the barrels over the side." Bard peered at the guard, but unfortunately it was Braga, one of the few who was actually loyal to the Master for reasons other than his pay.

"You heard him," Braga barked out as his less willing partners, who shot a conflicted glance at Bard. "Into the canal! Come on, get a move on."

Sighing, the guards began to tip the barrels sideways. Bard watched in alarm as the first thin layer of fish slipped off and plopped into the water. He stepped forward, startling the guards into stopping. Then Bard turned to look at Alfrid.

"Folk in this town are struggling. Times are hard. Food is scarce," he said.

"That's not my problem," Alfrid spat back, and Bard swallowed the urge to bite the man.

"And when the people hear the Master is dumping fish back in the lake, when the rioting starts, will it be your problem then?" Alfrid stared at Bard, clearly reading the threat in Bard's words. Bard stared back, willing Alfrid to understand just how serious Bard was being. Finally, Alfrid looked away first and lifted a hand.

"Stop," he told the soldiers, and the two that weren't Braga looked visibly relieved. Bard stepped back onto his barge. "Ever the people's champion, eh, Bard? Protector of the common folk? You might have their favour now, bargeman, but it won't last," Alfrid said, backing away from the dock.

"Raise the gate!" Percy called, seeing that the majority of the tension had passed. The portcullis that served as Laketown's tollgate began inching up over the channel. Bard kicked off from the dock, relying on the soft current to get the barge moving again. As the barge passed behind Alfrid, Alfrid turned to look at Bard again.

"The Master has his eye on you; you'll do well to remember! We know where you live!"

This time, Bard actually rolled his eyes. He couldn't not.

"It's a small town, Alfrid," Bard called back. "Everyone knows where everyone lives!"

Shaking his head, he continued to guide the barge down the main channel, pulling out his long pole once again to push off from buildings and move faster. He could beat Alfrid to the central docks, but only if he picked up the pace, and it wouldn't do for Alfrid to catch Bard smuggling in dwarves—the man was already on the lookout for any excuse to give Bard another public lashing.

Bard continued to push the barge through Laketown's central channel, down to the docks that lined the quasi-square. He took the barge around to the most obscured one, then tied up. Bard looked around, spotting the person who was supposed to be watching the docks at this time. It was Gregor, a fact for which Bard was thankful; he'd been on Gregor's good side for several years now, to the point he would almost consider them friends.

This ascertained, Bard knocked over the first barrel, sending many fish and a dwarf tumbling onto the dock. He moved down the line, until the other dwarves seemed to pick up the hint. Dwalin burst up, practically growling at Bard.

"Get your hands off me."

Bard raised his hands in surrender, and bit by bit, the entire company, Bilbo included, were standing on the docks, confused and reeking of fish. Bard walked quickly over to Gregor, who was staring in shock, and thrust two coins into his hand.

"You didn't see them, they were never here. The fish you can have for nothing. See if you can share them with those who need it," he said. Gregor nodded once he realized what was going on. Bard turned back to the dwarves, motioning to them to follow him.

"Come, follow me," he said, and after a second of hesitation, the dwarves and the hobbit did so. They were barely a few steps past the dock, just getting to the crowd, and already Adelinda had dropped a pot of kingsfoil in shock. Most people were busily _not_ paying any attention to Bard and his followers.

Bard double-checked for guards before ushering the dwarves across a small bridge that had scant covering. "Keep your heads down and keep moving, quickly now," he urged, mentally counting down the seconds until Alfrid or the guards arrived.

The dwarves were almost all to the other side when, as if summoned, three guards appeared. The one in front  fixated on Bard, eyes flicking quickly from him to the dwarves and back. For a split-second, Bard thought he might actually get away with it; but then the guard's face resolved itself into an expression of anger and he moved forward through the marketplace, heedless of the people around him.

"Halt!" he shouted. The dwarves turned as one to stare, and then immediately took off running. "Oi! In the name of the Master of Laketown I said _halt!_ " the guard shouted after them. He motioned to the two guards behind him, and they took off in pursuit, just as another pair appeared from the other side of the marketplace.

All four began chasing the dwarves, and Bard ducked out of sight momentarily, looking around. Finally, he spotted what he was looking for, and twitched his fingers. The rat—a youngling, barely two months old, but large—ran over quickly, settling itself in his hand. Bard lifted it up, running a finger down its back a few times before whispering to it in his native tongue, the one that he'd always had the best luck communicating with. Then he set the rat down.

It ran quickly through the open spaces, clinging to walls, but once it was close enough to one of the guards, it got under his feet and sent him flying. Bard grinned fiercely, projecting happiness at all his creatures. He looked around, watching as the dwarves systematically tripped and knocked out the other guards, aided by the ever-willing townsfolk. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Braga had arrived.

Bard got up then, doubling around and coming out from behind Braga, making move as if to talk past him. Braga caught sight of him, and extended a hand to stop him.

"What's going on here? Stay where you are! Nobody leaves!" Instantly, the whole marketplace froze. Bard surreptitiously looked around, checking where the dwarves were. They were all hidden, but the four knocked-out guards were not. Bard stepped sideways with an exaggerated motion, hoping to not let Braga look too closely at the scene.

"Braga! Sorry?" Bard said, putting on his best 'I'm innocent' face.

"You!" Braga looked Bard up and down, like they hadn't seen each other just minutes prior. "What are you up to, Bard?"

"Me? Nothing. I'm looking for nothing," Bard replied. He thought he heard the sounds of groaning, but it was soon followed by a heavy plunk, and then ceased. Braga was looking over Bard's shoulder, eyes squinted.

"Yeah…" he pushed Bard bodily to the side, moving menacingly towards where Hilda and some of her neighbors were working. Bard thanked the stars that the townsfolk had been so quick to react—plants and nets shielded the fallen guards from Braga's view, and not a single one was turning over the dwarves.

However, if Braga continued to move forward not even that quick thinking would save them… Bard looked around hastily, then his eyes settled on a grey blouse, up for sale. Sending an apologetic look to the seller, Bard slid it quickly off the rack, holding it by both shoulder straps.

"Hey, Braga. Your wife would look lovely in this," Bard said, despite only ever actually having met Braga's wife twice. Still, the words had their intended effect, and Braga completely forgot that he was searching for illegal dwarves, the full force of his fury focused now on Bard.

"What do you know of my wife?" he demanded angrily, and Bard jerked back slightly, pretending to be shocked and disappointed.

"I know her as well as any man in this town," he replied lightly, the lie escaping through his teeth before he could think twice on it. Braga's scowl deepened, and he snatched the blouse out of Bard's grip, storming off with it in hand. His two minions followed him, and only once they were far enough away did Bard slowly exhale, grimacing.

The dwarves were slowly coming out of hiding when Bain ran up to Bard, eyes a bit wild and still with soot on his cheek, probably left over from the forge.

"Da!" Bain said, urgently. "Our house, it's being watched!" Bard nodded slowly; this he'd known already, but if even Bain had realized… Bard motioned the leader of the dwarves over, watching Bain's eyes widen slowly with concealed amusement—Jan had been telling Bain stories of the dwarves and their smithing abilities, and Bain already regarding dwarves as a whole as a sort of hero.

"Listen to me carefully, and follow my directions," Bard whispered to the dwarf, speaking a bit louder when it was clear that White Beard was also listening in. "You're going to go straight down here, take two turns right, the first chance you can get, and then another left. Third turn to the right again, and then you're going to get in the water and swim underneath the docks until you see an indoor air bubble—you'll be able to tell because it'll be lighter in color than the docking but darker than the sunlight air, all right?"

"We have to _swim_?" the leader hissed, and Bard nodded.

"It's the only way to get you there unseen, otherwise you may well be gutted. Just follow my instructions, do you remember them?"

The white-bearded dwarf spoke up. "Straight, two rights immediately, left, third right, get under the docking and swim to an indoor bubble," he said, and Bard nodded.

"Good, I'll see you there. And keep out of sight as best as you can." Then Bard stood up fully, a hand on Bain's shoulder. Bain glanced at him, but didn't ask any questions (at least, not yet; Bard was certain he was going to get grilled once they were away from prying ears). Together, they walked back to their house, Bard noticing out of the corner of his eye and with the help of a few roosted bats and the youngling rat from before how every motion he and Bain made set off a waterfall of little signals throughout the Master's small network of spies.

Bard and Bain climbed the outside stairs of their house, Bard picking up an apple from the basket lying outside—clearly Sigrid had been shopping—and tossing it out to the two people in the small rowboat, whose oars has mysteriously switched positions as Bard neared.

"You can tell the Master that I'm done for the day," he called out. One of the people had the presence of mind to avert their eyes. Then Bard turned, following Bain inside. Tilda rushed up to Bard, hugging him.

"Da! Where've you been?" Tilda asked, worried as usual whenever the barrels ran late.

"Da, there you are, I was worried," Sigrid added, rubbing her hands clean of whatever she had been chopping before giving Bard a hug as well. He smelled garlic on her hands, but ignored it, instead handing her the small bag of coins he'd taken from the dwarves.

"Here, for later," he said. Sigrid took the bag, openly confused, and even moreso when she realized what was in it. "Bain, you know where I sent them?" Bain nodded. "Good, go fetch them, I'll be right down after you, just have to take care of something first."

Bain slipped away along the inner staircase, and Tilda went to watch him curiously. Sigrid turned to Bard.

"'Them'? Who is 'them'?" she asked.

"You'll see in a moment, Sig', just hold on I have too—" Bard closed his eyes, breathing deeply and expanding his awareness. His bats weren't entirely awake, and he felt a little guilty disturbing their rest, but he needed eyes and ears about, on the watch for anything. A few of the more willing and more intelligent rats were added to his mental pool as well, and Bard recognized the youngling as one of them. The creatures of the deep, though they heard his call, ignored it.

He exhaled slowly, letting his mind clear before sending out the command. _I need eyes and ears. Keep watch on the Master and let me know if he gets too close_ , Bard thought, and he kept his awareness open long enough to receive the affirmative response. Bard brought his awareness back to his own body with relief.

When he opened his eyes, Sigrid was staring between the dwarves and himself, as the dwarves walked up the inner stairs, sopping wet and grumbling.

"Da… why are there dwarves climbing out of our toilet?"

As Bard was debating the most succinct way of answering that, Tilda tugged on his sleeve. He looked down at her.

"Will they bring us luck?" she asked.


End file.
